


Alas, This Is Witchcraft!

by Tiny_Dragongirl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Halloween, Love Confessions, M/M, Not the way you think, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Safeword discussion, three sassy witches, witchy coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiny_Dragongirl/pseuds/Tiny_Dragongirl
Summary: Crowley finds himself in a spot of bother on the night of Halloween, then accidentally adopts a bunch of teenagers, until Aziraphale comes to his rescue. Featuring three witches, two idiots in love, one (not an apple) tree.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34
Collections: Trickety-Boo! Exchange





	Alas, This Is Witchcraft!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freyjawriter24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/gifts).



> Written for freyjawriter24 within the Trickety-Boo gift exchange from the GO Events discord server. (Spookiness level: 1) I so hope you like it! I was over the moon about getting you as my giftee.

If Crowley was asked, he would say that it all started with his petulant just-five-more-minutes self smashing the alarm in July. Considering that he is currently hanging upside down from a tree, he hasn’t been asked. According to Norse mythology, Odin (one of the coolest guys among the gods) discovered the runes by hanging from Yggdrasil with a spear in his side—although Crowley is one of the coolest demons, he’s much closer to getting wounded than getting any wiser. It seems tonight isn’t a night of discoveries.

“I’ll make a xylophone out of your bones!” he barks, using his best commanding voice, but these witches aren’t amateurs.

Well, probably not amateurs, but it’s hard to tell. They’re dressed in black (even their masks are black), and they’re armed with bolines and scythes, and, what really makes Crowley’s blood run cold, real witch hats! Two of them at least, the third one isn’t wearing anything on top of her head, leaving more emphasis on her raven black hair.

“You haven’t got a hat,” Crowley points out, once again failing to keep his mouth shut.

“Yes, I have. It’s made of sky.”

Right. Worse than witches— lunatics. A bunch of gagas who apparently know how to summon and tie a demon. It doesn’t make sense at all, and what is worse, Crowley is still so groggy from sleep and hanging upside down that even the Spanish Inquisition could handle the situation better. The Tadfield based one, not the 15th century stuff.

“What do you want from me?”

“You’ll be my Bifröst to the Man on the Moon, so to speak,” says the girl with the hat made of sky, like they’re discussing if she should make scones or Victoria sponge for tea. (Aziraphale would probably vote for Victoria sponge.) “I need your occult powers to fly me to the Moon.”

Ahh, yes. So simple.

“Why?”

“I want to be with my one true love, the Man on the Moon.”

“You watched way too many John Lewis ads,” Crowley groans, because seriously?!

“It’s not stupid,” argues the girl who is the tallest in the group and her hat matches her size. “The Man has a dog; they’ll be very happy together.”

“Humour me. How exactly do you plan to get there?”

“A drop of your blood on the wood used for the midnight bonfire will open a bridge to the Moon, then I’ll step on the fire and fly—”

“Whoa, whoa, stop right there! No true witch would step willingly into fire _ever_.”

“Fire cannot kill a true witch. Check it out in _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_.”

“I think you got your references crossed.” Crowley should feel relieved. A drop of his blood, really? Bagatelle. But to watch a girl walk into her death for some crazy lunar business that makes her look like a mail-order bride wannabe? That just gives a whole new definition to _luna_ tic. “Anyway, you don’t seem old enough for dating.”

“Duhh. Booo-ring. You sound like my dad.”

“Then maybe you should listen to daddy, Moon Girl.”

“Now you sound like a pervert.”

“No, really, how old are you?”

“Old enough to be tired of the sorry state of our Earth, and pathetic, pompous people ruining my chances for a decent future.”

Ahh. Crowley kind of sees her point, but couldn’t she channel her feelings into an award-winning, cry-of-despair type movie? Antonioni won an award at Cannes for _L'Avventura_ , for Somebody’s sake.

“Also, her boyfriend cheated on her, then dumped her and bad-mouthed her to the whole school,” Tall Girl chirps in.

“Brad has nothing to do with it!”

“Come on, Tiffy—”

“Miranda! It’s Miranda! What’s so difficult about it?!” Miranda/Tiffy snaps, but it’s accompanied by a sniffle, and she is quickly falling out of character. “Some friend you are! Why don’t you give my name and address, just in case, to make sure the demon gets his sweet revenge for capturing him?”

“Whoa, ladies!” Crowley interrupts before a friendship gets broken in front of him. “Worse things have happened to me than getting captured by three schoolgirls. It’s a bit humiliating, maybe, but not the end of the world—trust me, been there, done that etc. So, if I ask you real nice and promise not to hunt you down, will you untie me, please?”

Three pairs of eyes blinked at him with suspicion.

“Pretty please?”

“You’re a funny creature,” Miranda says after an awfully long pause, but there is the hint of a smile in her voice. “Fine. No moon landing for me tonight.”

She cut Crowley’s ties with her scythe and he ended up in the grass with a thud and an undignified yelp.

“I’d offer you a hand but I’m trying to reduce contact here, so—”

“I’d prefer if you offered me a drink.” He frowns. “Are you old enough to drink?”

“Yeah.”

“Then can we move this to a place less damp, unless damp means a bit of wine spilt on the rug from my glass?”

And that’s how they end up in Miranda’s bedroom, armed with alcoholic beverages, a bowl of popcorn, and a plate of pumpkin muffins.

“First thing first: my name is Crowley. What shall I call you?”

“Call me Miranda.” It’s not an offer, it’s an order. “She’s Perdita—”

“Hi!” Tall Girl waves a little. Entering the room, the doorframe knocked off her hat, so now her long, auburn curls are unrepressed, sticking out in every direction.

“—and that’s Hermione.”

Another wave, this time from the pale, doe-eyed girl who hasn’t uttered a word all evening.

“Nice to meet you, ladies.” Crowley waves back to them, almost knocking the glass out of his other hand. Coordinating limbs after a long nap is always tricky. “Now that we all shared our made-up names, second thing, well, second. At least one of you knows how to fish in the sea of occult creatures, so—who is it? You?” He points a finger at Miranda, but she shakes her head so violently it’s a miracle her hat (made of sky!) doesn’t fall off.

“Oh, no, not me. Perdita has real powers, the true shit, but I’m a born leader.”

“Bet you are.”

“I offered to put a curse on Brad but she declined,” Perdita shrugs. “Now I need a new target; I’m itching to test my bad luck curse.”

“What you need is a fellow witch who will teach you to master and control your powers. I might know just the person. And you—”

“Please,” Miranda waves him off, “don’t give me the ‘no asshole is good reason enough to set yourself on fire’ speech. Brad is, uhh, _was_ just an unpleasant episode. I’m more depressed about the state of the world.”

“I know that everyone copes in their own way, but I’m sure there are better methods.”

“Okay, how are you dealing with all this shit around us?”

“Erm, I was… sleeping.” The confession earns a disbelieving snort from Perdita. “Listen, I know I’m not the epitome of productivity, but I swear there are good ways to channel your anxiety. For example, my an— my acquaintance learnt to bake during lockdown!”

“We can bake,” Mirande gestures at the muffins.

“That's not my point. Sorry, Aziraphale is just so much better at explaining things. Well, not really, he tends to start everything ab ovo or ab garden or whatever— Anyway, he can see the beauty in the ugliest things, so you should be talking to him, not me.”

“Cool. Call him.”

“That— that won’t work.”

“Why not?”

Crowley wants to slap himself into tomorrow but decides that admitting his failure to the girls will earn him disapproving looks worth a few kicks and slaps.

“Because I overslept, missed all his calls and messages, oh, and not to mention, our anniversary.”

“Holy cow!” Perdita exclaims, and Miranda pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to keep calm.

“And I thought I was having boyfriend troubles.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Crowley protests because that word is obviously not enough to describe what he and Aziraphale have. Or do not have right now, since they absolutely avoided talking about feelings. “It’s complicated.”

“I don’t care about your Facebook status!” Miranda all but shrieks like a banshee. “I can’t believe I’m listening to you bullshitting about dealing with heart trouble, you hypocrite!”

When a pillow flies into his face, Crowley decides it’s time to defend himself.

“Only twenty-five missed calls!”

Okay, maybe not the best defense. Especially not since, much to his surprise, Hermione grabs the phone out of his hand and pushes the call button.

“Aziraphale?” Her voice is sweet like the honey in those pumpkin muffins. “We’re the wicked witches and we have Crowley. Find him if you care.” When she is done, Hermione hands the mobile back to Crowley. “I hope he can trace your presence or whatever you occult people do, or he’ll spend a lot of time running around London.”

“Oi! What did you do that for? I’m a demon, you don’t mess with my phone!”

“Shush, princess! Hermione’s the brainiac in the group, she knows what she’s doing.”

“You shush, you miraculous ladybug! Only Aziraphale is allowed to shush me.” Crowley jumps up and starts pacing. Teenagers can be so difficult. “And where were you, Hermione, when your friend wanted to walk into fire?”

“You do realise I never intended to burn myself for real?” Miranda asks icily, arms crossed in front of her chest. “I was bluffing.”

“Really?” Crowley’s anger is momentarily soothed but his suspicions aren’t lulled.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” To stress her point, Miranda uncrosses her arms and draws an X over her chest with her middle finger. “We wanted to test Perdita’s powers, that’s all.”

Now Crowley’s anger flares up with renewed flames.

“Are you out of your minds?! What if you summoned a vicious demon? Do you want to live in a haunted house?”

“I’m seventeen! I’m expected to make bad decisions!”

“Stop right there, missy! If anything, you’re expected to ace your A level exams, go to uni, join Politics Society— No, maybe not that one, that would count as a bad decision— Anyhow.” He takes a deep breath before he grounds Miranda for her recklessness. “I know that the world is full of shit, but running away to the Moon or Alpha Centauri or— or anywhere, really, running away is never a solution. And conferencing with the folk of Hell or Heaven? A complete waste of time. You can do so much better than that.”

“Okay, boss.” Miranda might be smiling behind her mask—but then she’s definitely giving a quick hug to Crowley, rendering him speechless. “Cool. Now back to proper social distancing.”

However, it’s not so proper since Hermione decides to braid Crowley’s hair while they’re waiting. It takes her twenty-eight minutes to work his hair into a nice Dutch Crown Braid, and it takes Aziraphale twenty-nine minutes to track down Crowley and make a dramatic entrance by crashing through the window.

“Alas, this is witchcraft!”

Aziraphale doesn’t have the flaming sword on him, isn’t even representing in his angelic true form but still, he looks so terrifying that the girls freeze in their places and Crowley instinctively steps in front of them. Not even the fact that he is yielding a rolling pin can ruin the grim image Aziraphale is projecting.

“It’s okay, angel,” Crowley says softly. “Everything is going apple-shaped.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale lowers his rolling pin. “I’m afraid there must have been a misunderstanding.” He frowns, and the sweetest little wrinkles that Crowley has ever seen appear on his brow. (Not that he’s familiar with sweet things, no. Apart from Aziraphale, definitely no sweetness.) “Unless they somehow tricked you into using your safeword.”

A little snicker escapes from Perdita’s lips and Aziraphale (mistaking it for an evil snicker, bless him!) immediately draws himself up, ready to strike. It takes Crowley just two steps to close the gap between them and place a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“No, that’s not the case. I’m safe, honest to Someone.”

“Good.” Aziraphale relaxes, before dropping the rolling pin and enveloping Crowley in a tight, warm hug.

“Hng! Angel.”

“I missed you.” Crowley thinks he’s hearing intense popcorn chewing from the background but he couldn’t care less. “I might have mentioned it in fourteen voicemails.”

“Yeah, about that…” Cheeks reddening, Crowley tries to unfold from the embrace to give a proper apology and explanation but Aziraphale wouldn’t let him. “I overslept the bit, then, uhh, met the girls and had no time to catch up—”

“Oh, shush, my dear.” Now there’s a soft, small awww sound coming from Perdita’s direction. “I’ll sum them up for you.” Aziraphale moves his head a bit, now his voice isn’t muffled by Crowley shoulder, but his words are tickling Crowley’s ear, turning his face into a whole new shade of crimson. “I missed you. And I’m sorry—for keeping you at arm’s length and being obtuse. If you’re still amenable, I’d like to hunker down together with you somewhere nice, because I love you. Erm, yes, probably should have started with that.”

Crowley feels hot all over his body and he’s probably red like a tomato under his clothes—the blood is rushing back to his head from his toes, yes, that must be it. Nothing to do with his heart hammering in his chest like, well, a hammer about to fall. Or whatever. He cannot be taken responsible for his metaphors, not when he’s about to enter a very enthusiastic kissing session in front of three minors.

“Perfect order, angel. Love it from beginning to end.” Crowley pulls back a little, so he can give an eskimo kiss to Aziraphale. “Just as I love you.”

“From beginning to end?”

“Something like that.”

With a snap of his fingers, Crowley restores the window, averting the three girls’ attention, and uses the moment to place a short but sweet kiss on Aziraphale’s lips.

“Why don’t we go back to your place and discuss the details?”

Aziraphale nods, his whole being shining brighter than any jack-o-lantern. “Jolly good.”

“Oi, you three!” Another snap, and Anathema’s number miraculously appears in Perdita’s phone. “Anathema should keep you out of trouble—for a while—but, uhh, anyway. Take care. Next time when you want to have some fun, watch _Shaun of the Dead._ Or the _Corpse Bride_! That’s a good one. Just, you know, no summoning or getting too drunk because it’s the end of the world.” Aziraphale raises a questioning eyebrow that Crowley promptly ignores. “Okay. See you when I see you, I guess. Any last questions?”

“What do you think safeword means?” Miranda looks at Aziraphale.

“It’s a word we previously agreed on after, er, certain events, so we can reassure each other that we’re in full possession of our corporations and nobody—for example, our former bosses—is messing with us. We use it to say that we’re safe. See? Safeword.”

“Right.” Hermione steps forward and Crowley would facepalm himself if he wasn’t so busy enjoying an armful of Aziraphale. “Before you leave, you might want to know that safeword actually means—”

It might be a night of discoveries after all.

**Author's Note:**

> All my pumpkin-shaped gratitude flies to [chewb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewb) for betaing! Thank you so much for your patience and support!
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN, FOLKS!
> 
> PS. You should totally check out [Celestial University](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24569698/chapters/59336677) by freyjawriter24—it's simply amazing!


End file.
